[Intro – sparse fingerpicked guitar, low cello drone, distant waves] [Verse 1 – quiet, intimate, almost whispered] The sea was grey, the morning cold, The sails hung slack and still, We crossed the bar at Hell’s Gates, Against the water’s will. The convicts whispered, “This is hell,” As the breakers rose and fell, And the harbour held its breath Like a quiet, watching bell. [Chorus – mournful, wide and slow, long held notes] Oh, the gates were wide enough for sorrow, Too narrow for a dream, And the men who sailed behind them Left no mark upon the stream. Oh, the wind knew all their names, And the rain remembered too, For the sea keeps every story That the shore never knew. [Verse 2 – restrained, building gently] They came with iron on their wrists And winter in their eyes, To an island wrapped in wilderness Beneath indifferent skies. They cut the pale Huon pine at dawn, They built the ships by night, And each plank they laid upon the yard Was a small, unfinished flight. [Chorus] Oh, the gates were wide enough for sorrow, Too narrow for a dream, And the men who sailed behind them Left no mark upon the stream. Oh, the wind knew all their names, And the rain remembered too, For the sea keeps every story That the shore never knew. [Verse 3 – softer, more fragile] Some dreamed of England’s green fields, Some dreamed of mothers’ hands, Some only dreamed of morning light On far and foreign sands. But the forest swallowed every path, The harbour kept its tide, And the ones who tried to slip away Were never found outside. [Bridge – voice almost alone, minimal instrumentation] There’s no devil in the water, Only weather, iron, and time; No horned keeper at the entrance, Only history’s slow decline. Yet when the fog rolls through the Heads And the old light burns alone, You can almost hear the oars Calling lost men home. [Final Chorus – fuller but still restrained, then pull back to near silence] Oh, the gates were wide enough for sorrow, Too narrow for a dream, And the men who sailed behind them Left no mark upon the stream. Oh, the wind knew all their names, And the rain remembered too, For the sea keeps every story That the shore never knew. [Outro – slow, fading, sparse guitar and cello] So if you pass through Hell’s Gates, Speak softly to the foam, For the harbour holds the voices Of the men who called it home. And when the evening tide comes in, And the sky turns ash and blue, The sea will sing their names again — As it always, always knew. [Spoken Outro – no music, only waves, wind, and distant foghorn] They called it Hell’s Gates because, for them, it was. Beyond that narrow passage lay an island of rain and iron, where men built ships from the forest and watched the tide carry their names out to sea. The settlement is gone now. The chains are gone. The ships are gone. But when the fog gathers at the Heads, and the light at the entrance turns the water pale, listen closely. You may not hear voices. You may only hear the sea — still keeping their stories, still carrying them home. [End – one final low wave, then silence]
